


Only Forward

by wynnebat



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Families of Choice, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage of Convenience, POV Harry Potter, Time Travel, completely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-07-13 19:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16024664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: Alright, I might have a saving people thing,Harry thought as for the second time in his life he found a man locked inside a magical trunk.





	1. Chapter 1

_Alright, I might have a saving people thing,_ Harry thought as for the second time in his life he found a man locked inside a magical trunk. This time, it was even more accidental than the last time, considering he was in another country and time, so far removed from the last time that he could barely lay claim to his name. A week ago, Harry had landed in rural New York with the subtlety of a comet in terms of the magical energy that had emitted from the blast. He'd been brought in bleeding and confused, first accused of meddling with dark magic and terrorism against muggles until they finally accepted the fact that Harry hadn't intended to do anything of the sort.

It helped that when asked, he'd said the date was October 31st, 2002.

From there, he'd been shuffled to the Americans' version of the Department of Mysteries, which was already overtaxed after its infiltration by Grindelwald. Harry didn't know much about the history of the Grindelwald era--his idea of wizarding history mostly consisted of goblin wars, courtesy of the terrible Professor Binns--but whatever happened had obviously left the ministry shaken. By the will of the strange magics that lingered on him, Harry couldn't be forced to reveal the future, but the ministry had other strategies to make sure the occasional traveler such as himself didn't make a mess of things. The Time Travelers Act of 1811 called for him being bound to a respectable member of the government who would be responsible for curtailing any negative effects of his travel through time.

There was an _or else_ that wasn't quite explained, but didn't involve sending Harry back to his rightful time, as that had proved impossible.

Never mind that Harry had gotten into this mess by accidentally stumbling upon a dark coven's ritual circle instead of willingly trying to change history. If he'd wanted any of this, he would've been a hell of a lot more subtle about it.

That line of argument hadn't gone over well with MACUSA either.

While his overseers argued over who he should be bound to, Harry traversed the halls of the most protected levels of the American ministry. The shackle around his wrist prevented him from leaving the upper levels of the ministry, but at least he wasn't in a jail cell. He got to view such wonders as the execution room (creepy as hell, especially with the rumors of it almost being illegally used recently ago), the wandmaking hall (Harry nearly got stabbed by an elm tree he could swear was sentient), and an out of the way little closet where a some very circumspect paperwork had been stashed on top of a magical trunk.

Just going by the papers, Harry had expected to find something illegal inside, but instead he'd stuck his head in the trunk and found the nearly unconscious form of the presumed dead Director Graves.

He'd wheeled the trunk to his magical overseers, opened the lid, and insulted their organization skills.

That one hadn't shouldn't have gone over well either, but within moments everyone was too shocked to remember his words. Graves spent days in a healing coma in the hospital, and whether it was because of his status as the man's savior or because someone felt sorry for him being cooped up in the ministry all this time, Harry was allowed to see him when he awoke.

He even bought some flowers on the ministry's dime. It turned out he hadn't needed to; Graves' hospital bedroom was a veritable field of flowers. Vases of bouquets in every shade stood on every surface except the bed, their magical flowers bright and lively no matter how long they'd actually been there.

Harry's eyes flickered from the flowers to the man in the bed, who was sitting up and gazing at him in return. "Do you even like flowers?"

A flicker of something that could have been either pain or amusement crossed Graves' expression. "No one likes flowers to this extent, but I appreciate them." He didn't speak as Harry moved a vase from the visitors' chair to the floor in order to be able to sit down. Harry's own bouquet he added to the vase with some bright sunflowers. "Thank you for saving my life. I've been told that had no one found me for another few hours, I would not have survived."

Harry swallowed, looking down. "I never know what to say to that." Ginny, Arthur, hell what felt like half the wizarding world had shaken his hand and thanked him, and all Harry had been able to do was mumble something in response.

When he looked up again, there was a small smile on Percival's lips. "Neither do I. But I think _you're welcome_ would do, as you can't say you were only doing your job."

"I did what anyone would've done," Harry said instead. It was true. Maybe not everyone would've killed a basilisk or a dark lord, but this time, saving a life had been so very simple, an accident of fate not unlike the accident that landed him in this time. "I'm glad you're alive."

"As am I," Graves said. There was no playfulness in those words, only a deep sincerity.

Harry wasn't a seer, but he'd been around the block enough to know what that kind of sincerity often led to. He didn't need a life debt from anyone, not even the director of the DMLE. He spoke before Graves could get those words out, saying, "You look like someone in dire need of a wizard's chess partner, unless you've been able to talk a mediwitch into the game."

Graves gave a huff of surprise and shot Harry a knowing look, but he didn't argue. "It's been some years, but I was the reigning champion at Ilvermorny. Are you sure you want to play me?"

"I've been playing against Ron Weasley since I was eleven," Harry said in return. Ron taught him everything Harry knew about chess, and while he wasn't at Ron's level, years of playing had at least made sure he wouldn't be an embarrassment. Harry had even become interested in the game himself sometime along the way, to Hermione's annoyance as he and Ron enthusiastically procrastinated on their homework in favor of chess.

Two games later, Harry's overseer's shift came to a close and Harry stood up with reluctance.

"Can I visit again?" Harry asked. This was the only place he'd been able to get leave to visit, but Graves wasn't half bad company once he'd stopped thanking him.

"Please do," Graves said in reply.

One visit turned into two, two into six.

No one said no to the formerly kidnapped and tortured director, not even when it came to time travelers whose freedom the ministry was still arguing over. Graves rarely needed to order anyone around, but when he did, he did so with an even tone and a confidence Harry found weirdly attractive. And when his orders were followed, it could be a little out of pity, but it was more so because of the good Graves had done during his long career. Harry made small talk with a healer whose little brother Graves had saved from a kidnapping ring three years ago, listened to the reminiscing of the aurors who visited their superior's bedside, and heard enough to tease Graves about the crup-snatching case he'd solved as a young auror.

Whatever else he'd done, Grindelwald hadn't tainted him. Percival was still healing from his imprisonment, and the physical and mental scars were extensive, but there was no darkness in his heart. He was a man who fought against the spread of dark ideology tirelessly before his capture, and when no man would have faulted him in refusing to return to MACUSA's service, he never turned in his resignation.

And the day before he was supposed to be released from the hospital, Percival moved his rook, and almost offhandedly said, "I've requested a copy of the bonding paperwork."

Harry blamed his surprise for moving his queen in a way that would surely cause him to lose the game. "Why would you do that?"

"You're in need of aid and I have a debt to repay," Percival replied. He looked well put together despite the fact that he wore a dark hospital robe rather than a proper wizard's robe. Harry found him asleep only once and even then his hair had been in place and there had been nothing so embarrasing as drool on the corner of his mouth or a five o'clock shadow. The fussiness reminded Harry of Malfoy, though Percival didn't use nearly as much hair potion to slick back his hair.

When it came to Harry's turn again, Harry was too busy staring to make his move again. "I didn't save you because I wanted a debt from you. And I haven't been coming here because of it, either." At first, he'd come out of curiosity and boredom, but as the visits continued, seeing Percival had become something he'd looked forward to for its own sake.

"I didn't think so," Percival agreed. "And I don't offer this out of any attempted manipulations of my own."

"Then why?" Harry asked, still mystified. Even if Percival wanted to repay his debt, there were other ways to do so. Harry had taken a look at the binding paperwork; it was only one or two lines short of a marriage. At this strength, the bond would be considered a marriage bond, and whoever Harry bonded to wouldn't be able to bond with anyone else. Neither would Harry, but he was a man out of time. Marriage wasn't a top priority in his mind. Frankly, at this point all he wanted to do was leave the MACUSA building without a guard dog on his heels.

"You need a keeper," Percival said in reply. With a wave of his wand, the chess pieces sunk into the chess board. There was no way either of them were going to finish the game today.

It was a phrase so familiar, something Hermione had said a thousand times, that for a moment Harry couldn't speak through the sudden deep ache in his chest. His friends' absence was an emptiness that could never again be filled, especially not with a random ministry member assigned to bond with him. Percival's presence couldn't completely soothe the ache, but the fact that it did so even a little said quite a bit.

Still, Harry muttered, "I feel like a quaffle, with the way the ministry wants to saddle some asshole with my bond."

"Saddle?" Percival asked, sounding surprised. "Harry, the process has stretched this long because there's a dozen high-ranking people fighting over either having you for themselves or making sure their political opponents aren't bonded to you. Even Seraphina considered throwing her hat in the ring. Time itself protects travelers from being interrogated, but there's nothing stopping you from willingly sharing information, especially if you develop a connection with whoever you're bonded to. You'd be treated like a prince if you decide to sway the council to choose someone from the Everhart family for example. The family's matriarch is the head of the magical relations department, but you might be able to manage a bond with one of her children, who are closer to your age. Doing so would be a politically savvier choice than myself."

"Oh." Harry leaned back into the wooden visitor's chair, brows furrowing as he tried to realign his worldview. Alright, fuck, he was the belle of the ball again. It wasn't common knowledge that he was a time traveler, but it had apparently spread at least to the department heads. Harry didn't have high hopes for the secret being contained there.

Harry Potter, time traveler.

At least it was better than the Boy Who Lived moniker.

"You hadn't considered that aspect of it," Percival said, but he didn't make it sound like Harry was an idiot. And if Harry mistook the emotion that colored his tone for fondness, then it was all Percival's fault. "That's part of why I've offered. You're not trying to use your not inconsiderable influence to get ahead."

"I don't actually know that much about American wizarding politics," Harry immediately said. "I couldn't use my knowledge to my advantage even if I wanted to."

"But you do know the general future of the world and the future of Britain in particular."

"Yeah," Harry admitted. "But I'm not a--" Slytherin, he'd meant to say, but America was weird and didn't place the same weight on whether you were a Slytherin or a Gryffindor (or the other two houses that so often got overlooked) "--person who cares about that sort of shit. I don't want to bond to someone just to climb some overrated political ladder. I've had enough of politics for a lifetime."

"Have you," Percival noted.

Harry sighed. There went any of his secrets, if he bonded to an auror. He knew himself well; eventually, Percival would know everything there was to know about him. Strangely, Harry minded it less than he would have had he been speaking with someone else. "Are you sure you're not trying to play the politics game yourself?"

"I've already reached the highest position I wish to hold. Any higher and I wouldn't be an auror any longer, and I'm not so old that I need to spend my days behind a desk. My greatest ambition is for Grindelwald to be tried in international court for his crimes, but if I go down that path, I'm not sure how long our bonding will last. I don't intend to rest until Grindelwald and his influence is gone from the world. You might have to find another bond within a year."

"You'll live if I have anything to say about it," Harry told him. He didn't have anything to back up his promises, but there was a gravity in his voice that someone who hadn't lived the life he had wouldn't bear. "I'm not an auror, but I'm damn good in a fight. I saved your life, so you don't get to throw it away now."

"And you wonder why I wouldn't request the paperwork," Percival said. "I don't know who you were in the future. None of us do. What I do know is that you're powerful enough to overpower a magical trunk keyed to Grindelwald's magic without a second thought. You're law-abiding enough to stay within the confines of our regulations, but independent enough to have scoped out the exits of the hospital if you decided to avoid the bond."

"I'd planned to leave today," Harry admitted. He hadn't realized Percival had seen right through him, although he probably should have. There was little that Percival didn't see. And yet, the auror didn't sound angry.

"I know. You're stubborn that way, anyone can see it if they choose to look. And you're kind." He didn't explain the last one, but Harry found himself flushing all the same. Kindness was a heartbeat away from infatuation, when the object of one's kindness was a handsome auror. "Will you bond with me, Harry?"

Harry lost himself for a moment in the color of Percival's eyes. It had nothing to do with legilimency and everything to do with two paths he could take in this life. He rather thought Percival would allow him to run if it came down to it. Harry would even get a head start while Percival was stuck in the hospital and not at full capacity as director of the DMLE. But if he ran, he would never meet with Percival on good terms again, and somehow that thought wasn't as easy to bear.

Harry didn't want to be a fugitive, that was true. He'd had enough of that during the war. While he couldn't imagine the American government would hunt him with as much fervor as Voldemort, it wouldn't be pleasant to have to change his name and his appearance. And the tiny, odd, underlying truth was that neither did Harry want this to be the last time he saw Percival. If he ran, Percival would be obligated to turn him in if they saw each other again.

If he stayed, Percival would treat him with the same respect he treated him now, because Harry couldn't imagine it being any other way. If he stayed, he would have a place to return to whenever adventure called him away. Harry hadn't wanted to bond with a nameless, faceless ministry goon, but Percival was different.

Strange, how it took falling through time and losing everything for him to find someone who felt like home even without the bond already there between them.

"I'd need to leave for a little while," Harry said, carefully. "I have some things to take care of in Britain."

Percival gave him an evaluating look. "Even this far back in the past?"

"Especially this far back in the past," Harry said. He'd already wasted enough time here in America. In a sense, it didn't matter. He knew Merope Riddle wouldn't die until the end of December and nothing he did here could possibly affect that. And yet, he felt like the biggest cad for leaving her to survive out there in the cold autumn streets while he slept in a warm cot. Granted, it was a room not meant to be a bedroom and hastily made to hold him, and there were spells on the door, but it was better than what Merope had.

He didn't know how to put it in a way that made sense. He hated Voldemort, of course, there was no doubt in his mind about it. But Voldemort existed only in Harry's memory. The boy who would one day be Voldemort was a child in his mother's womb. Merope, who was miserable and young, who had made horrible choices and had horrible things done to her. Harry remembered her in Dumbledore's pensieve and his heart ached for the young woman who'd reminded him so much of himself. He'd had the Weasleys and Hermione, but Merope hadn't even had Hogwarts.

It was his saving people thing acting up again. Percival couldn't blame him for the very same impulse that had saved the man's own life, could he? "There's a girl somewhere in London. Or-- well, a young woman. I don't know how old she is. She died long before I was born, but I knew her son." Harry grimaced, the thought of Voldemort driving pain onto his face. "I hated him, don't get me wrong, but I knew him better than anyone. His mother lived on the streets. She sold the last remains of her heritage in order to have something to eat. And when it came time for her to give birth, she lived only long enough to deliver him in an orphanage and give him a name." Harry's gaze traced the scars on the back of his hand. Voldemort's legacy was one of darkness and pain. He doubted even a happier childhood would be able to change that. But one day, when Voldemort made his move, Harry would be in place to make sure a little boy also named Harry Potter wouldn't have to bear the weight of defeating him. "I know he wouldn't thank me for it. He was a miserable dick, but..." Harry shrugged, meeting Percival's eyes. He was relieved to know that whatever else, Percival was no dark wizard. War coated both sides with gray, but Percival didn't sympathize with the dark cause and he hated Grindelwald for taking months of his life away from him and leaving him nearly dead.

"I'll give you access to my Gringotts vault before you leave," Percival said. "You'll have an initial spending limit until we have a conversation about our financial habits, but I'll set aside some funds for you to be able to give her a proper start."

Harry's response was immediate. "I don't need--"

"You do."

"Well, I wasn't asking."

"Neither am I."

Harry wondered if he'd be forced to deal with this kind of insistent generosity for the entirety of their bond's existence. Probably. It made him feel embarrassed, because he'd gotten used to relying on the Potter vault and needing to borrow money from someone only reminded him of his time at the Dursleys', but it also made him feel strangely warm. "You don't even know her." _You don't even know me._

"It's alright," Percival said. His hand twitched, but he didn't move.

For one strange moment, Harry wondered if he'd wanted to reach out to Harry. He wondered just how long it had been since Percival had experienced another's touch. He'd been hugged since his imprisonment, maybe, but Percival didn't seem like the type to encourage hugs. He was a little stoic, a lot intimidating to people who were sensitive to that sort of thing (Harry hadn't felt intimidated in years, and that had only been with Ginny, who had an impressive right hook and an impressive everything before they'd decided to split). Percival hadn't spoken of a partner, nor had one appeared out of nowhere. No family visits, no ex-wives. Friends and coworkers, but no one more intimate. Harry's heart ached for something he couldn't put a finger to.

And Harry knew he wouldn't be leaving that day.

Harry stood up, but he didn't head for the door. He leaned in, gently wrapping his arms around Percival's chest and resting his head against the auror's collarbone. Percival's intake of breath was audible, and he was stiff for a moment before he relaxed against Harry. He leaned into Harry's embrace just a little, then his right arm wrapped around Harry's side.

"Thanks," Harry said, not letting go. "Just, thanks."

"You're welcome," Percival said in reply. His voice was so close, and Harry could almost feel the echo of his words against his hair. "If everything goes through, I will see you tomorrow. If it doesn't, I'll see you anyway."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating has been changed.

Harry spent the next day hanging around one of the labs and attempting to convince a researcher to use his potion for pranking purposes. If it was to be his last day as a pseudo-prisoner of the American ministry, he wanted to go out with a bang. He felt it was the only thing he could do, being the only person in the past who could spread Fred and George's legacy. Harry had almost obtained a yes when Yahey straightened in response to footsteps coming from the corridor.

"Director Graves," Yahey greeted, stepping away from his research as though Percival could intuit his and Harry's conversation. "How can I help you?"

"He's here for me," Harry said, jumping off the countertop and meeting his future bondmate at the door. He didn’t doubt for a second that Percival had managed to obtain approval for the bond. He was a hard man to say no to, whether you were a ministry employee or prospective bondmate. Fuck, that was still weird to think about. He'd spent half the night wondering if he should back out of the bond. His body was less troubled than his mind, sleeping soundly once Harry allowed himself to clear his head. "Director Graves."

"Mr. Potter," Percival said in return, motioning Harry out of the room. Despite his politeness, the expression on his face had softened just enough for something inside Harry to flutter. Merlin, Percival had been attractive enough in a hospital robe, leaning against a couple fluffy pillows, but a well-dressed Percival Graves was ruthless on the eyes. Long dark robes, a white undershirt, and a black tie. A scorpion collar pin peeked out from under his tie. Harry was doomed. Percival didn't seem to notice Harry's sudden preoccupation, asking, "Do you have any belongings you'd like to collect?"

"None," Harry replied. "I arrived with nothing on me at all." It would be one of the first thing he'd do once he was free. If Ollivander hadn't yet created his holly wand, Harry would be tracking Fawkes down himself in order to get his wand back in his hands. He was not too proud to resort to begging the phoenix for a feather.

"I'm sorry," Percival said, despite Harry's tone having been light.

Harry hadn't had many treasured belongings, but there had been a few. His photo album, initially created by Hagrid, but added to throughout the years. There were pictures of Sirius, his friends, even a few of Colin, who'd usually preferred being behind the camera. His cloak. His broom. He tried not to think hard about everything he'd lost. Because it hurt, but, "They're not gone. They're just... displaced in time." One day, the line of Firebolts would exist and a different Harry Potter would carry around a photo album. Or maybe he wouldn't; maybe a photo album would sit on the shelves of the house in Godric's Hollow, because that Harry Potter could see his parents anytime he wanted. It was a bittersweet thought. To distract himself, Harry asked, "Are we doing it now?"

Percival inclined his head. "I thought you'd like to get out of here sooner rather than later. The notary office is on the sixth floor."

"You're right. I would." Harry shoved his hands in the pockets of his borrowed robes. What the hell was he doing again? There wasn't any air in the hallway, and it only got worse as they entered a small elevator at the end of the hall. It was empty, an employee elevator rather than the more ostentatious visitors' elevators downstairs. Harry leaned against the wall, growing tense as the numbers flickered downward.

Two floors later, Percival pressed the stop button, but with a wave of his wand the elevator doors remained closed. Harry pressed his head against the cool metal wall and felt like a gnat stuck in the gears of the well-oiled government machine. His heartbeat felt as though it were echoing throughout the compartment, although Harry knew it could not be true. At the edge of his vision, Percival took a step closer, but he said nothing for a long moment. Fingertips touched the front of Harry's hand, the back of which was clutching at his robes. Harry could tell the moment Percival noticed the words on his skin, his fingertips pausing on top of the rough scars. But when Harry turned his head toward him, Percival was looking at his face, not his hand.

"I'm fine," Harry said. It was, perhaps, not the most honest thing he'd ever said.

Percival huffed with little humor. "You will be. This isn't the hardest thing you've faced, I think."

"It's in the top ten," Harry muttered. He raised his hand, flexing his fingers and watching as the scars stretched at his skin. Even after Umbridge was gone, Madam Pomfrey hadn't been able to do much about the way them. And later, Harry had better things to be concerned about. "Pushes these off of the list, at least."

At the implicit permission, Percival examined the scars. First with his eyes, then his hand returned, his thumb warm as it ran across the words. "A blood quill?"

"Yeah."

"I know Britain has extreme methods of punishment—dementors of all creatures as prison wardens—but this is reprehensible."

"Even by British standards, considering I was underage at the time." Harry was always happy to malign Umbridge. But the truth of his panic was, "I don't like feeling like I'm chained down. I never have. The idea of being bonded to someone who I haven't known for very long, with the future so uncertain... There's no going back if we do this."

"If it's of any help," Percival said, his touch deepening as he took Harry's hand in his. "Here is our future as I see it: when you're ready, you and I will continue down to level six, where we will greet Anna, the daughter of one of my old schoolmates. She will enthusiastically bind us, likely not realizing that it is not a marriage bond. After which, we will continue to the main level and exit to the magical district behind the building, hopefully without running into anyone who wants to offer me their sympathies after my imprisonment. I will show you to my home, where I haven't yet visited since Grindelwald's stay. It was searched by my top team of aurors for any lingering dark magic, but you'll have to be careful. You'll sleep in a guest room. I will sleep in the second guest room until I have enough time to scour my bedroom with cleaning spells. I might hire a house-elf. Tomorrow, I'll have you set up with a Gringotts pouch connected to my account and make plans for however you'd like to leave the country. You'll then set out in search of your young woman, who I am certain you will find with dogged determination and the same luck that allows you to win during our games."

"Skill, you mean," Harry corrected, having to protect his honor. He squeezed Percival's hand gently in thanks. Somehow, hearing the future laid out that way comforted him immensely. Maybe it was the way that Percival was intent to honor Harry's mission to help Merope, or maybe it was his deep, soothing voice as he spoke. "And then?"

"Do you have anything else you'd like to do in Britain?"

"Not really. There are a few people alive now that I knew in the future, but..." He shrugged. "Things were complicated between us in the future and I don't think me swanning in and announcing I'm a time traveler is going to help matters." He loved Albus Dumbledore and he'd grieved him, but this Albus wasn't the man Harry knew. This Albus hadn't met Tom Riddle, or defeated Grindelwald, or lived through war. "Everyone else hasn't been born yet." Merlin, their parents probably hadn't even been born yet, let alone the people he loved.

"Then you'll either travel or return here. I recommend somewhere sunny, but I leave the choice to you."

Harry rather felt like he'd accidentally acquired a sugar daddy, but he didn't know if the term existed yet, and he didn't want to explain it to Percival, whose eyes he suddenly couldn't meet. It would help if Percival were less attractive. It would help _greatly_. Instead of voicing his thoughts, he said, "And if someone higher up decides to be a dick and complains that you can't vouch for me properly while I'm overseas?"

"Seraphina won't care and anyone else will be told that I've put measures in place to track you. They may assume as they like, while we in truth can just exchange letters," Percival replied, his answer easy to say now, before any accusations had even begun. "And I will assure them that you will return in your own time. I didn't sign up to be your prison warden. I'd like to see what you decide to do with your life, and if your decisions don't include me in it, the minimum I require is that you inform me if you use your future knowledge to significantly change the world as I know it."

Harry raised an eyebrow and turned their joined hands over so that Percival could see the scars again. "I didn't get these because I lied. I don't bother lying most of the time. The truth always gets out one way or another, whether you like it or not." And he wasn't about to bear his soul to Percival, but there was a thing or two he could say now to make things easier down the line. And he wanted to be here down the line, wanted something from this man who gave him comfort and would give him shelter and asked for little in return. "This woman I want to save, she's descended from Salazar Slytherin's line.

"He's one of the original founders of Hogwarts," Percival said to confirm. "The hated one."

"Yeah that's him," Harry said with a snort. "Bastard wanted the school to be free of muggleborns. His descendants aren't much better of people. Merope--that's her name--is going to give birth to the darkest wizard of his time. I don't know if his darkness is the product of nature or nurture, but..." He shrugged. "I'm hoping that maybe it will be toned down a few notches with some love and healthy meals. I'll make it harder for him to gain power, but he might become a Dark Lord again."

"He isn't your responsibility, whether you know the future or not."

"He's been my responsibility since before I was born. It makes a weird kind of sense that now he's mine before he's even drawn his first breath. Fate's a bitch like that." Harry straightened, lifting himself free of the elevator's wall but not slipping his hand out of Percival's hold. He'd let his future bonded partner decide on when to let go. 

The glowing numbers began to change, slipping rapidly until the doors opened on their desired floor.

From there, events occurred just as Percival had predicted. Anna was very enthusiastic, her eyes alight with the chance to add fuel to the rumor mill that was already in a tizzy about Director Graves. Harry made one attempt to clarify the specifics of their bond, which she either misunderstood or decided to purposely misunderstand. Either way, he shared a exasperated look with Percival. It would be the romance of the century, no doubt about that. Upon returning from his imprisonment, the first thing Director Graves did was marry his lover. In the fictitious account, Harry could already see himself as having been estranged or abroad, so as not to taint the story of their love with details.

When the parchment glowed softly and became ready to sign, Percival retrieved his wand and held it like a quill above the parchment. With fluid movements, he signed his name at the bottom. Harry was about to remind him that he had no wand of his own, but then Percival flipped his wand and offered it to Harry hilt-first. Its wood was darker than Harry's holly wand and when he adjusted his grip, he noticed it was also firmer than his own. Harry scribbled his name on the space provided. It felt strange to use a wand as a quill, but his name appeared on the page in black ink without requiring the prompting of a spell.

And then it was done. They were bonded.

The ink had barely dried when Anna congratulated them on their marriage and made a copy of the document, which she kept while Percival slipped the original into a pocket in his robes. A copy would also be sent to Harry's overseers, but as of now, Harry was free to leave the building. According to Percival, he was free to leave, period.

They exited through the back doors of the ministry, which opened into a magical district not unlike Diagon Alley. When they passed by a restaurant and a dish on one of the tables caught Harry's eye, Percival didn't hesitate to guide him inside. Harry realized he didn't mind the staring as much when the stares were directed at someone other than himself, but he still minded them on Percival's behalf. It was a sensational story, but that didn't give some of the other occupants of the restaurant cause to be rude.

"Have you ever had a bond before?" Harry asked as they ate, feeling curious about Percival's past.

"No, I haven't. Neither this kind of bond—you're the first time traveler in decades—and a more traditional bond. I've spent rather more time courting this position than courting marriage, and once I had the job, I was too busy to consider finding someone to share my life with. I was a solitary person before Grindelwald. And now, after... I don't want to live a life where no one notices I've been replaced simply because there is no one there to notice." _I'm lonely,_ was what Harry thought Percival might be trying to say.

"I'm here right now," Harry said. He couldn't say he'd be here long or that he would be here forever, but he sat across a small table from Percival, and for tonight he wouldn't be going anywhere. And loneliness couldn't be the entire basis for a relationship, but it wasn't just mutual loneliness between them. Harry took a sip of his wine. "You don't have any family?"

"An aunt on my mother's side. She lives in New Hampshire and has taken to embodying the stereotype of a hermit in the middle of the woods," Percival said, though he sounded fond. "I visit twice a year, but neither of us are the type to stay in contact. She doesn't even have an owl. I have a younger brother who lives in Russia with his wife and children, but we haven't spoken in a few years. Cousins in Washington state and Oregon. A few friends who I don't keep in contact with nearly enough, apparently."

"And there's Tina," Harry said, having met the young auror twice while Percival was in the hospital. There had been tears and regrets there, and she reminded him of Hermione in a way, but otherwise he didn't know her well. "You could grab—" Drinks, he'd wanted to say, but Tina hadn't seemed like the type for drinks. "Pastries? Together."

Percival gave a huff of laughter. "Maybe I will. Call it a midlife crisis, but I'm going to try to build better connections. To you, too. Exchanging letters across the Atlantic will be slow-going, but I'd like to hear about your adventures."

Harry wouldn't mind that at all. "My godfather and father had a set of enchanted mirrors they talked to. Is there something similar for sale here?"

"Maybe," Percival said, consideringly. "I'll have to visit the local charmed objects shop."

Evening had properly arrived by the time they left the restaurant. Harry exited with a full stomach, wine leaving him loose-limbed but still mostly clearheaded, walking closer to Percival than was perhaps proper for anyone who wasn't newly married. The word husband still left Harry unable to quite be able to to use it to describe himself. Percival looked like a husband type, though maybe for a beautiful woman in one of those glamorous sparkly dresses instead of himself. But Percival didn't try to leave space between them as they walked. He just led them to a quiet street to the back of the wizarding district where rows of houses stood in an arrangement similar to Grimmauld Place. It was a better district, and thoroughly magical at that, but a comparison could be made.

The door opened at the press of Percival's wand. "The wards are open to my wand's signature and that of the internal investigations auror squad. One more thing to update." He hesitated for a fraction of a second, but opened the door. A chandelier flickered to life as they stepped inside, lighting the house in golden hues. It was nothing like the doom and gloom of Grimmauld Place, the walls a cream, white, and brown patterned wallpaper and the corridor table bearing yet another bouquet. "It looks the same," Percival said, though he sounded pained.

Harry leaned into him a little. "It's still your home. No matter what, this is yours."

Like most wizarding homes, it was larger on the inside than the outside. Harry walked through the rooms, looking into each one with curiosity. It was too large for a single person, but from the occasional photographs on the walls, Harry got the impression that it had been in the family for some time before Percival came to inhabit it alone. One of the photos was of a boy with Percival's looks, sitting on the front porch steps with a bowl of strawberries. A dog valiantly attempted to pilfer a mouthful, while someone's hand kept trying to get into the frame. Harry passed through a parlor, a dining room, a reading room, and some miscellaneous areas. The kitchen was at the very back of the house and the fridge was empty. Harry couldn't say whether the aurors cleaned any mess Grindelwald might've made or if the dark wizard had just been a clean houseguest. Neither option would probably be all that comforting to Percival.

After making his way up to the second floor, Harry peered into the master bedroom, which was more of a master suite, complete with a sitting room and two other doors, and found that Percival had aired out the first guest room. There was a towel and a pair of pajamas on the bed. In the en-suite, Harry stepped into the huge, claw-footed bathtub and turned the various nozzles until hot water came out. There were no labels, so it could be that he'd ended up washing his hair with shower gel, but Harry considered it an alright sacrifice. His hair deserved it for its habit of becoming messier each year.

Harry usually slept nude, but the pajamas were warm and comfortable. It wasn't late enough for him to sleep and he had the feeling Percival wasn't asleep, either. The door to the second guest bedroom was wide open. As Harry approached, he heard Percival sigh loudly at the contents of the drawers.

"Anything really egregious?" Harry asked, leaning against the doorway.

It looked like in the time Harry had bathed, Percival had done the same. He wore a pair of matching pajama bottoms, though his shirt had gone missing. Imprisonment had left the man thinner than he must have been before, but as he watched the way the muscles of Percival's back flexed as he moved, Harry praised the fact that he'd ended up here. He'd still rather be in the future, but if he'd landed in 1826 he wouldn't have had this sight to balance the equation.

"Some of my things are missing," Percival said, closing the wardrobe doors. "Although the worst is the wreck that was made of the library's organization system. I don't know what he was looking for, but he seems to have disturbed every shelf in the process."

"There's a library?" Harry hoped he didn't sound as distracted as the thought he did. And it was not because he was interested in Percival’s library. 

"Third floor. There's also an office and a spell experimentation room, which he also put to good use." Percival shook his head and turned to Harry, glancing casually at the change in his appearance. He approached Harry, but left some distance between them. "I have my work cut out for me tomorrow."

"I'll help," Harry offered. He pushed himself off of the door frame, but found himself restless, just standing there in front of Percival.

The thing was.

Percival wasn't going to take the step, which meant it was up to Harry to decide if he was something he wanted. And Harry's decision had been made ages ago, maybe even the first time he saw him in the hospital, when he'd entered the room and Percival had looked at him like he was a person instead of an oddity of magic who got lost in the streams of time.

Maybe it was reckless, but Harry had never been able to understand the appeal of taking things slow. Bonding, that was something Harry'd had an issue with. But Percival himself? That was easy. And if he'd read things wrong, then in a few days Harry would be gone anyway. He could stay away until the awkwardness vanished, until this moment was just a memory the two of them could laugh about.

"When you said you wanted to build connections, did you mean platonically?" Harry asked, not building up to the question. He blamed it on the wine, on the situation, on the fact that Percival refused to look less attractive. Whether it was fortunate or not, Percival didn't look blindsided at Harry's words. Harry was terrible at hiding his emotions, but this time he'd thought that he hadn't done too badly.

"With everyone else in my life, yes. With you..." Percival took a step closer. "I would've happily settled for a platonic bond between us. We can choose to make what we want of this bond. It can be two names on a paper and a bond that stretches across the Atlantic and I'd be content with that."

"Or?" Harry asked, because there was another option in the heaviness of Percival's gaze. There was a challenge in Harry's eyes, but it wasn't to Percival, not really. It was to time and fate and this whole fucking world, throwing him into this chaos and willing him to sink or swim. Harry had enough of selflessness. He wouldn't let the world burn, but he would take whatever happiness he could get from it in the meanwhile.

"I'm in a position of power over you, legally speaking," Percival said, though his words weren't a no. "Financially, socially, should I go on?"

Harry shrugged. "Most of those don't mean much to me. Watch a Dark Lord take over the social structures of your country and suddenly they stop meaning anything to you. They're convenient, that's all. Besides, if we're talking social structures: it's my wedding night. I think MACUSA owes me." Harry attempted a leer, but he couldn't accomplish it in the face of Percival's amusement at his words. "But I'll let you reschedule if you'd like. I'm accommodating."

"You're a marvel," Percival said through a huff of laughter. "And of course I want you. Come here, Harry."

And Harry did, closing the door behind himself. Beyond the room, the house was too empty, shadowed with Grindelwald's lingering memory, but in front of him Percival looked at him with building anticipation. Harry reached for him, reveling in the ability to finally touch to his heart's content. The press of his lips against Percival's was chaste for only for a bare second. Mouth against mouth, skin against skin, licking and tasting, and Harry regretted bothering to put on the pajamas. He should've just arrived naked. Percival would've gotten the memo. His hands roamed across Percival's chest, brushing against the hair of his chest and the outlines of a few scars. Harry had never found scars sexy--probably the effect of being unimpressed with his own scar all his life--but there was still something weighty in knowing how much Percival had overcome to be here.

"How do your subordinates even function around you," Harry said as he caught his breath, kissing Percival again before the man could answer. His _husband,_ who was so hot that Harry was convinced the DMLE could be powered on sexual attraction alone. 

"I'm sure they manage." He looked deservedly smug. They'd already taken a few steps toward the bed, but Percival took another few, and Harry followed like there was an invisible thread tying them together, like he couldn't do anything else. He didn’t _want_ to do anything else. 

Harry's thighs hit the side of the bed and for a moment Harry strongly considered angling for the bed, but there was something he wanted to do more. "Can I suck you off?"

Percival made a low noise in his throat in response, kissing him once again before saying, " _Yes_."

Harry tugged at Percival's waist, pulling down his pants and pajama bottoms in one motion and maneuvering Percival to sit down on the edge of the bed. Harry trailed his hands down thighs he could make a shrine to, pressing his hands into the muscles just to properly appreciate them. If Percival was already sending his higher brain functions fleeing now, Harry couldn't wait until he'd completely recovered. He was willing to return to return to New York from London for a booty call or twenty. He slipped the clothes all the way off his husband, his own cock impossibly hard as he finally got to see Percival's. And Harry already knew he wanted this, but fuck if he couldn't already nearly feel it in his mouth. It had a nice weight in his hands as Harry explored every inch of it before he leaned in. He mouthed at the head, tasting it gently as one of Percival's hands settled on his shoulder. Part of Harry's attention lingered on the way Percival's breath stuttered and grew hard, but most of it was on the cock he began to lathe and suck.

His own cock ached at the lack of touch, but Harry couldn't keep his hands off of Percival. One on the part of his cock that Harry couldn't reach with his mouth, the other gravitating between Percival's knee and thigh. He couldn't stop touching, couldn't stop the way Percival's hard grip on him turned him on even further. Percival managed a warning before he came and Harry had a split second to decide between wanting to swallow or not, but he wanted everything.

Once spent, Percival didn't hesitate in tugging Harry up and kissing him while shoving Harry's pajama bottoms down to reach for Harry's own cock. Harry came quickly, but he was too out of it to be embarrassed. All he cared about was Percival's arms around him and his tongue in his mouth. Harry's lips felt sore and everything tasted like come, but he kissed Percival back with fervor.

As the passion gentled, Harry kissed Percival one last time and got up to clean the come from himself. He shrugged out of the pajamas completely, leaving them next to the sink. He stayed long enough enough to brush his teeth with one of the half-dozen spare brushes in the bathroom cabinet. When he stepped back into the bedroom, Percival had already slipped under the covers, but he'd left the part of the blanket closest to Harry's side untucked. Harry slid in, folding himself against Percival's side.

He pressed a kiss against Percival's shoulder, just because. "This place feels a lot less gloomy now."

"It does. Thank you." Percival dimmed the lights and the room fell into a gentle sort of darkness.

"Mm. My pleasure." Altruism wasn't on his list of reasons for the sex, but he'd still take it. Creepy house aside, this place was comfortable, easy. Most of it was down to the man he was falling asleep next to.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry woke up in Percival's arms, which wasn't all round a bad way to start the morning. For a little while, he laid awake in the comfortable, warm embrace, staring up at the styled grooves of the ceiling and wondering how his life had managed to take such an extreme turn. He'd been in the past for several weeks, but it hadn't become the new normal to him yet. Neither had Percival become something Harry took for granted, but he couldn't see that ever happening anyway.

He'd been with men before, been with women too. Harry could admit to having a phase after the final battle, during which he and what felt like every other young witch and wizard partied with abandon at the sudden freedom Voldemort's death granted them. But he hadn't lingered, hadn't considered settling down. Even now, Harry was planning a trip across the Atlantic rather than planning a future with Percival, but there was still something in him that felt content at having a place to return to one day. A home, a husband, a star he could gravitate around.

Harry shook his head at his own fancy as he slid out of the bed. Ron would make fun of him so hard for mooning over Percival, but hey, Ron wouldn't have to know.

Percival had woken twice to Harry's knowledge during the night, each time only for a little while. Harry moved as quietly as he could to give him more sleep during the early morning. In the meantime, he headed up to the third floor, which he hadn't properly explored the night before. The library was chaos just as Percival had described it, the kind that would set Hermione's hair standing straight with fury. Harry didn't linger long before continuing to the spellroom, which was more promising. He wasn't Hermione; any books he'd read since the war had been purely out of necessity. The spellroom's floors and walls were lightly cushioned. Toward the back of the room were racks of exercise equipment, while at the front were two faceless dummies holding wandlike sticks. In a cupboard, Harry found two wands and an assortment of battle equipment. Picking up both wands, Harry went with the one that felt least wrong in his hand. It was only a halfway decent fit, but for now it would do.

Harry poked at the dummies with his borrowed wand and gave a delighted cry when the closest one bowed at him in traditional dueling fashion. Having picked up a few tricks from Flitwick's reminiscences of his dueling days, Harry bowed back. Out of curiosity, he stayed still when the dummy sprang into action. He allowed the reddish-pink light of its first spell to hit him. It stung, but not nearly as much as a true stinging hex would.

"Home, one, competitor, zero," spoke a disembodied voice. It was pitched exactly like Graves', but with his husband fast asleep downstairs, it could only be his magic at work.

Settling into a loose stance, Harry got to work to properly duel the mannequin. The simulation wasn't set up exactly like a duel--there were no points awarded for the complexity of their spells or the amount of damage. It slowly escalated, growing faster while Harry, who'd had neither caffeine nor breakfast, grew slower and sweatier. After what must have been an hour, Harry muttered, "Yield," and breathed a sigh of relief when the dummy bowed to him and ended the duel.

"House always wins," said Percival's disembodied voice.

Harry huffed at it, tempted to go again just to see if he can beat this time around. But he had a full day to look forward to. He couldn't spend the entire thing beating Percival's house.

"Just you wait," Harry said to it. "I'll be back."

The dummy had the gall to bow to him again. It had no face and still managed to give off a smug air.

Leery of waking Percival up, Harry showered in the guest bedroom again. He left the bathroom in only a towel, not trusting himself to perform half-remembered washing and drying charms on his clothes. He'd had enough of that during the war. He made his way to Percival's bedroom, from which he heard light sounds. The door opened at his knock, but Percival himself was hidden in the large closet to the back of the room.

"Mind if I borrow some clothes?" It wouldn't be hard. While Percival was broader than him in the shoulders, they were about of a height.

"Certainly," Percival said.

Harry should have known that it wouldn't be as simple as sticking his hand into Percival's wardrobe and pulling out the first thing that seemed like it would fit. Percival distracted him for a moment with a kiss, his hands stroking down Harry's bare shoulders and chest. By the time Harry's brain rose back up again, he stood in the middle of Percival's closet, which was more of a room within a room than a walk-in closet. He'd grown up in a closet; Percival's was bigger than even Dudley's old room. Inside were shelves and dressers full of more robes, shirts, pants, and shoes than a man could possibly need. To a man like Harry, who'd lived out of his school trunk for months after permanently moving into Grimmauld Place, it was inconceivable. Each time Harry tried to complain about the fuss, he found himself being kissed. Harry really could get used to this, and it would be completely Percival's fault.

"You'll need a full wardrobe. I favor monochrome, but it won't suit you, and you don't dress to intimidate," Percival said as he reached into one of wardrobes and pulled out a pair of briefs.

"I dress to be dressed," Harry said, terribly unhelpfully.

Harry's towel had fallen to the floor sometime during Percival's manhandling. Unfortunately, while Percival's interest was centered on Harry's body, he was interested in dressing it up rather than any of the other wonderful things bodies could do. With a shrug, Harry made his peace with that. It was rather nice to see this side of Percival. He'd seen him as a hospital patient, as an auror, as a man, but he hadn't seen this side of him. Percival watched as Harry threw on a white collared shirt and dark pants. A wave of Percival's wand and the shirt lost some of its fabric, becoming more fitted. A flying hairbrush fussed with his hair in the meantime. Harry would've said that it was pointless, but after a solid ten minutes of brushing, his hair did seem to fall more artfully messily than plain old messy. He now even had an old-fashioned wand holster instead of sticking the borrowed wand in the closest pocket.

"It was my great-grandfather's," Percival explained, allowing Harry to borrow it. "I only use it to diversify the dueling mannequins' magic."

While Harry's attention turned the brush's newest attack on his hair, a vial of hair potion joining its efforts, Percival rummaged through a wardrobe that seemed to be an odds-and-ends area compared to the organization of the rest of the closet.

"Until I have a better option, this might do," Percival said, offering a robes to Harry. The fabric was the darkest blue with metallic thread weaved into it, casting a subtle sheen to the robes. Percival wrapped the robes around Harry's shoulders himself.

Even Harry, who rarely had a care for fashion whether he was dressing for a date or an even where he knew there would be reporters, was impressed. He leaned back against Percival and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. "Holy shit. You're a miracle worker."

"Good fabric and a few spells," Percival demurred, though he looked pleased with his efforts. "Breakfast?"

Thoughts of breakfast led to eating out in New York City's magical district, which as a whole was not so different from Diagon Alley even in the light of day. Harry idly examined the storefronts and signs they passed, vowing to peruse them properly at some point. He still didn't know if he would stay here for good after he found Merope, but the thought didn't bother him. Percival didn't pressure him one way or another, simply telling him which stores were particularly interesting and sharing stories of patrolling the area as a junior auror back in the day.

"Did you grow up here?" Harry asked as they found two seats in a cafe.

"Only since graduating from Ilvermorny. My family has a house in Connecticut where I grew up, but I moved here when I enrolled in the auror program. Seraphina was my mentor upon graduation. The academy was good for some things, but I learned my entire foundational skillset from her. She's got a hell of a spell repertoire even now, not that she uses it. I mentored her son Finn in turn. He's… enthusiastic."

"High praise," Harry said through a smile.

"He's on the international Grindelwald committee now, more of a diplomatic posting than an auror's, but he's suited to it. He was never going to stay long in the auror corps, not with all that political talent in his blood." A wry smile, a shake of his head. "Seraphina is absurdly proud of him."

Harry sipped his coffee. "You are, too."

"Perhaps. He's a good kid when he's not setting anything on fire. I watched him grow up into the man he is now."

Harry couldn't help but ask more. Percival didn't hesitate to begin on the day that little Finn nearly burned down the family's ancestral home and continued on to other encounters. It was only the tip of the iceberg, Harry knew, these stories of the good times. Life never left one with only happy stories to tell. But to hear the rest, Harry would have to stay. He would need to get to know this man, and that wasn't as easy as it might feel, considering Percival would expect the same from Harry in return. Harry had never been good at allowing people near him; Ron and Hermione were his closest friends for years, but everyone else he'd held at an arm's length away. Even Ginny, who he'd left behind during the war because he'd been too scared to let her in completely. He'd told himself he'd loved her too much to drag into his war, which was true. He'd also just not trusted himself to protect her and for her to protect herself; he'd not been able to let go and sink into the freefall.

This whole situation felt a lot like freefall. Harry couldn't say whether it was the time travel or the growing affection, or perhaps it was a confusing mix of both.

After breakfast, they headed for Gringotts, where Percival dropped off their bonding document and requested access for Harry. A side vault was set up for a Harry Graves. It took Harry a few moments before he realized he could legally go by that name if he so wished. He didn't; whatever else the Potter name brought, it was still his. It had been his back when he'd been with the Dursleys and the only thing he'd had was his name (not that they'd used it, preferring freak to everything else) and it had been his even when the wizarding world tried so hard to lay claim to it.

Looking over Percival's shoulder as his bonded read the latest statement on his accounts, Harry choked a little. "Fine, maybe you can be my sugar daddy. It's obscene to have that much money." The Potters were an old, comfortable family, and had even been moderately wealthy after the success of Fleamont Potter's Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. This was on an entirely different level.

"Mine through inheritance. My ancestor Gondulphus Graves was one of the founders of MACUSA and head of the first auror department. The Graves family has been here since the very beginning." Percival only managed to avoid sounding like Malfoy because of his distracted attention, still partially reading the papers.

"Mm, so just a century or two ago," Harry teased, affecting his own attempts at snobbery.

Harry laughed as Percival tugged on the collar of Harry's robes, a serious expression across his face that was ruined by the lightness in his eyes. To their goblin guide, he said, "Excuse my husband. He's British."

The next time Harry's Britishness came up, it was in the context of house-elves. They'd returned to the house after Gringotts. Harry, who was never again going to be comfortable in a bank again after being banned from Gringotts in the future, was glad of it. He was rather happy that the ban hadn't somehow carried over to the past. The goblins were very unforgiving after the mess he, Ron, and Hermione had made of the Lestrange vault. And how they'd run off with their dragon, but Harry would never be sorry for that one. The goblins had offered to lessen the ban to only a quarter of a century if the dragon was returned. None of them had given in. Not only would Charlie have gone after them with something sharp and pointy, but morally speaking, Harry wouldn't have done it anyway. Not even if the goblins had been the ones with something sharp and pointy.

"I'll floo-call the agency," Percival was saying as he ran down a list of things to do and to fix. "A house-elf would be a huge help in getting the house back to what it should be. I know the basic charms, but I'm not as talented at household charms."

"A house-elf agency?" Harry asked, furrowing his brows. "You don't have your own?" Of course, he hadn't seen any around, but house-elves weren't known for being in one's face.

"Of course not," Percival said, before seeming to realize that Harry was in fact British. "They were freed during the sentient creatures' rights revolution a hundred-some years ago. The ministry had no power over house elf bonds, but any families who refused to free their elves underwent public shaming until they complied. The Graves had two elves who went on to work for our family for pay, but they passed away and their children chose to live in the house-elf commune somewhere in Ohio that supplies most of our food."

Hermione would've loved to hear it, Harry thought with a pang. "I had the honor of having a friend in a free elf named Dobby. He saved my life at the cost of his own. I inherited another house elf, Kreature, when my godfather died--which the house-elf had a hand in--and we quietly tried to avoid each other as best as we could. He was old. The only thing he seemed to want was his head on the wall after he died, which I vowed to do in exchange for him not calling me a mudblood or any other blood-related insults."

"Pleasant fellow."

"Very," Harry agreed. He hoped that Ron or Hermione had stepped in to take care of Kreature after Harry ended up in the past, but he was alright with never having to deal with Kreature again. Sirius' death no longer constantly pained him, and yet he didn't want to spend time in Grimmauld Place or near Kreature, either. Now, Sirius wasn't even born yet, and he wouldn't be for another thirty-odd years. Abruptly, Harry realized that if it was 1926, Percival must have been born in the late 1800s, which was nearly inconceivable. Dumbledore had been born in the 1800s. He was the only person Harry had known who was so old and now Harry could walk down a street and anyone older than their mid-twenties would have been born in another century. Harry and Percival's births had been nearly a century apart, and somehow they'd found their paths crossing and entwining. It was a little amazing, come to think of it.

Percival continued to speak through Harry's inner revelation. "The agency usually sends Klary. He's part elf and part something else, I haven't quite found an appropriate way to ask. He's always very unamused with my eating habits, organization, and spell upkeep."

"Don't worry, I'm plenty amused with your everything," Harry said, reaching over to adjust Percival's tie.

"Are you?" Percival asked. His smile was crooked. Harry wanted to adjust it with his lips.

"I am. I dueled your spell dummy this morning, you know. I didn't manage to beat it. I blame the wand. It doesn't fit me as well as my holly wand did." He'd get it back one day. The heart wanted what the heart wanted, and Harry wouldn't give up his holly wand for the elder wand, let alone this one.

"Excuses," Percival airily said in reply, and left the room to floo-call the agency before Harry could do more than splutter.

Klary turned out to be Harry's second favorite person in the past. He was just as opinionated as Percival described. Harry bemusedly followed him around the house, enjoying the house elf's disdain over what Grindelwald had done to the place and letting Klary order him about. He was tasked to clear up lingering dark magic in the master bedroom, which he could do even without the precise control a better suited wand would give him. Percival and Klary continued their rounds to the third floor. Harry laughed as he realized he could hear Klary's outrage over the books even a whole floor below them. Nothing about Grindelwald's control of the house and of Percival was right, but bit by bit, Percival could regain what he'd lost, what he'd spent months not knowing if he would ever see again. As a teenager, Harry hadn't thought much about Moody's situation. He'd been self-centered, as teenagers tended to be, though he'd also had the excuse of being a homicidal madman's mortal enemy. Moody had existed in the background of Harry's life; Percival was in the foreground.

After a couple of hours, Harry found himself working with Klary while Percival wrote some letters and sighed over the state of his ink supply. Later in the day, Klary picked up some sorely needed food for their fridge. The manual work left Harry with an abundance of time to consider everything he needed to do in Britain. His thoughts turned to Dumbledore, the only other person alive in this time who he knew, but he had no idea what he'd say to him. Dumbledore didn't need a savior this time around; he would save the world from Grindelwald's influence himself in the coming years. And yet, Harry was curious to see what Dumbledore looked like these days, how he acted. The earliest he'd seen of Dumbledore was the memory of Tom Riddle receiving his Hogwarts letter. That would be eleven years from now. Ideally, by that time, Tom would be slightly less of the creepy little kid he'd been.

Night fell, Klary left. Harry paused outside his guest bedroom door, but he didn't want to stay there, not really. Not if he would be welcomed somewhere else. He wanted a body next to his, against his. He wanted Percival.

"Do you want some company?" Harry asked, taking a step inside the master bedroom.

"How can you possibly be sick of the guest room already?" Percival asked lightly. He had already begun undressing, his collar open and his robes hanging over a chair. Harry did care for more than only Percival's looks, but it was a damn fine package. "You haven't spent any time in it."

"Do I need to?" Harry asked, approaching Percival. "I worked so hard cleaning the dark magic from this one. I think I should be rewarded."

And he was. Everything about Percival felt like a reward. For what, Harry didn't know. He hadn't done anything in his life so special that he the universe would have set this in motion.

Before he fell asleep, Harry remembered to say, "Klary is part wood nymph. I asked."

He felt Percival's hand gently run through his hair as Percival said, "My money had been on goblin."

Harry mumbled something in reply, but he was already half asleep. The blanket was a comforting weight above him, and Percival warm and steady by his side. Harry reached out to feel the beat of Percival's pulse against his skin. When Percival carefully broke away from the embrace, morning light had already broken through the curtains and begun shaking Harry out of his slumber. Harry grumbled at his sudden absence of warmth and someone to wrap himself against. Percival's soft kiss and murmur to continue sleeping didn't convince him. He blinked open his eyes. The motion triggered a full-body yawn and a stretch. By the time Harry actually sat up, Percival was already partially dressed in slacks and a shirt, his work robes hanging in the air beside him as he stood in front of the dresser.

Harry shook his head at the sight, then yawned again. "I can't believe you're returning to work so soon. Didn't they offer any medical leave?"

"I convinced them not to," Percival replied, waving his hand over the tie around his neck. It immediately tied itself, far better than any of Harry's attempts. He'd taken to not wearing his tie at all during his last few years at Hogwarts. No one had called him out on it, otherwise he might've actually had to develop the skill. "If I wait any longer to find out how much of a mess Grindelwald made of my department, I may never find the strength return. I already dreamed of drowning under the months of paperwork I'll have to review."

Harry slipped out of the bed. The air was chilly and he was naked, but it wasn't cold enough for him to feel like searching for his clothes. Instead, he joined Percival, glancing inside the open dresser with some curiosity. The top shelf of the dresser was devoted solely to collar bars. Plain ones, flowers, crests, creatures of every sort, antique and modern. They were organized by type, then by color, and there were about fifty of them in all.

"Most were my father's," Percival said, gesturing to the left half of the collection. "I started wearing them because I looked up to him, and then I received so many as gifts that I had to continue the habit or leave them to gather dust."

"But you usually wear the scorpion bar." Harry had only seen him wearing that one, whether it was because it was Percival's favorite, or perhaps his father's.

"I'm set in my ways," Percival allowed. "But if you'd like…" He placed the scorpion collar bar back in its place and motioned to the rest of the collection.

Harry's gaze lingered over the collection, but he already knew which one he would choose. The rarely if ever worn lion bar sat between an eagle and a serpent. It was silver in color and roared silently when Harry picked it up from its resting place. Harry considered it delightful, and so did Percival, if he went by Percival's amused huff.

"There is no other choice," Harry told him as he separated one of the heads of the pin. He flipped Percival's tie back and inserted the pin through the discreet holes in the collar. After, he adjusted Percival's tie and tugged at it gently to pull Percival into a kiss. "There. Now you're an honorary Gryffindor."

"I'm a Thunderbird, not that it matters any. Ilvermorny houses aren't of any importance past the first few days of our first year."

Harry sighed deeply in his soul. "Americans. The proper way to do houses is to force a deep divide between each one that creates a culture of pride and snobbery about your house, one that lasts long past your school years."

"I'll settle for my honorary membership," Percival allowed, kissing him again, just a gentle peck on the lips before pulling on his robes. "I'll need as much courage as possible to brave the paperwork."

"Consider praying to Godric Gryffindor," Harry offered with a straight face.

"Tell me you're joking. Harry? _Harry_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Aunt Muriel headcanon comes from [this](https://lytefoot.tumblr.com/post/178117343402/so-the-weasleys-are-the-rare-pureblood-family-that) tumblr post.

Harry lasted an hour into Percival's return to work before he began planning his trip to Britain in earnest. The house was boring all by his lonesome. Percival didn't even have a pet for Harry to distract himself with. He'd never been able to remain idle for long. All his life, there had been school, then Voldemort, then years of rebuilding the country with Kingsley. Harry had returned to school for his delayed eight year, but it was an altered curriculum. He'd spent more time repairing the castle, Hogsmeade, and the Forbidden Forest than he had spent time in the classroom. After, he and Ron and a few others applied their skillset to the rest of the wizarding world under Kingsley's direction. Harry had been in the middle of negotiations with the goblins about a specific metal the house-building contractors needed when he'd been pulled into the past.

At one point in his life, Harry had wanted to be an auror. He'd been fifteen and scared, exhausted, in pain every other day because of his scar. He'd barely been able to imagine a future past Voldemort.

Sometimes, Harry still couldn't. His childhood had shaped him so thoroughly that without the tunnel vision, he found himself at a loss for what to do. Winding up in the past had only exacerbated the problem, not created it.

But for the moment, Harry had one project: save Merope.

He took a week to plan his trip. During the day, Harry would stock up on everything he needed. He picked up his traveling paperwork from the MACUSA building, bought a pair of enchanted mirrors that would allow him and Percival to keep in immediate contact, a traveling cloak, and various other things. But it was his evenings that Harry found himself looking forward to, the times when Harry could sit sideways across one of the armchairs in Percival's library and play chess or form plans. Percival was an auror through and through; he encouraged Harry to think about his movements and create contingency plans. Harry, who usually went in blind to most situations, didn't mind the help at all.

"How will you find her?" Percival asked on one of these evenings.

Harry preferred the armchair closest to the fireplace; he'd even dragged it closer until he could feel the warmth against his skin. Percival sometimes joined him there, while other times such as now he favored the writing desk. It faced the fireplace from a distance of two meters away and had collected a small collection of books, scrolls, and paperwork in the days since Percival's return to work. As Harry glanced over at him to reply, he found him sharpening a quill, his knife glinting silver under the light of the torches and the fireplace.

"I know the general area she should be," Harry said, thinking back on his lessons with Dumbledore. "Somewhere between Knockturn Alley and Wool's Orphanage. It's a huge area and she's not immediately distinctive—dark hair, dark eyes, average height, not a looker but not disfigured or anything. Not memorable. I suppose I'll ask around."

It was a lot of ground to cover. He didn't know if Merope spent part of her time in the magical world; she'd certainly sold her locket at Borgin and Burke's, but had she stayed in Knockturn Alley or headed back out into the muggle world? She was more familiar with the muggle world. She would've only stayed if the wizarding world had something to give her, and Harry couldn't think of any shelter she could have found there.

Percival nodded. "Will she be scared off if she hears someone is looking for her?" At Harry's blank look, he added, "She's not expecting anyone to come looking for her, let alone a strange man whom she's never spoken to."

"Maybe. She's terrified of her dad and brother, but they're both still in prison. I don't think she'd believe that it's them coming after her." Still, Harry could imagine anyone being disconcerted to hear a strange man was looking for them. Harry hoped she would stick around long enough for him to assure her that he meant her no harm. If she ran, it would make his efforts that much harder. Merope wasn't in good health; he didn't want to add to her stress. Harry sighed, looking into the fire as though it could give him the answers to all his questions. "This is going to be complicated, isn't it?"

"Possibly," Percival replied, though it sounded like a yes. "There is a chance that it will go smoothly, but I try not to depend on luck."

"My whole life has been one lucky break after another," Harry said, looking back at Percival, who was watching him with dark eyes. "I don't know how people survive otherwise. Where do you think she might be? The Dursleys—my relatives—always liked to scare me by threatening me with homelessness, but I've never been in her situation. Even when I didn't have anywhere to stay because it wasn't safe, I still had some money and friends and a magical tent that kept us more or less warm." He could tell that Percival was barely restraining himself from asking, so Harry said, "There was a war in Britain. Dark magic versus light magic versus common sense, purebloods versus anyone who couldn't recite their magical heritage back a dozen generations. Or, well, two. As a halfblood, I didn't qualify. My best friend was a muggleborn and my other best friend was a pureblood whose family was the most amazing group of people I've ever met. Even crabby old Aunt Muriel, who claimed half a dozen witches and wizards as her grandchildren so they wouldn't be killed." He could almost see them in the fire, flame-red Weasley hair and all.

He only heard Percival move when he was a few footsteps away, only saw him when Percival leaned against the side of his armchair and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry leaned into the comfort, into the gentleness in Percival's voice as he said, "I'm sorry you lost your family."

Harry could only nod. He hadn't said, exactly, that the Weasleys were his family, but it had always felt that way to him. "They'll be okay. They better be." Wherever they were, lost in time or dimensions or perhaps only in his head, the Weasleys would be alright. And one day he would read in the paper about Molly Prewett's marriage, would hear of their seven children being born one by one, and somewhere out there a muggleborn girl would be born, destined to be the brightest mind of her generation. Her generation, Ron's, Ginny's, but never again Harry's.

"What are their names?" Percival asked.

Harry told him. He described them to him as he'd first seen them that day in King's Cross Station, eleven years old and completely unaware of the fact that they would change his life as much as the revelation of magic would. Just by virtue of caring for him and treating him like a son and a brother. And a little more, in Ginny's case. He'd been so unused to kindness that he'd had no idea what to do with this group of people that loved him. That first Christmas, it had been all he could do to keep from crying from sheer overwhelmed confusion and thankfulness at Molly's Christmas sweater. He'd kept most of his feelings inside—he didn't want Ron to think he was uncool—but it had been a close thing.

Eventually, when Harry had been quiet for a long moment, Percival murmured, "The paperwork beckons."

"You need a hobby," Harry said to him. He could understand Percival's drive to fix the damage Grindelwald caused, but the man was going to work himself to death if he continued.

"This is my hobby." Behind them, the piles of paperwork rustled punctuate Percival's words. Percival's use of wandless magic always tended to have a flourish of drama. "I've gotten quite good at it."

"That's a slow death, not a hobby," Harry said. "Have you considered knitting?"

Percival didn't seem very enthused at the thought. "Have you?"

"For your information, I was taught to knit by Ron Weasley himself."

"Ron of the chess fame?"

"The very same. My other best friend, Hermione, decided to knit clothes for the school's house elves in an effort to free them—I know that's not how it works, but we were young—and when Ron saw her first attempts, he couldn't bear to let her keep going. He sat us both down and taught us how to properly knit with wizarding needles and all. I think I was brought in just for moral support, but I picked it up quickly. Hermione abandoned her knitting after deciding to try to educate house elves and change their political circumstances instead of forcing clothes on them. I kept at it. Dobby always appreciated a good pair of socks."

A little reluctantly, but with a hint of a smile, Percival said, "If you teach me, I'll try to learn. I make no promises."

Harry didn't mind; they'd already made their binding promises. With or without knitting, there was always chess, or a thousand other things to do. Things to teach, learn, try out for the first time. Together.

 

*

 

Harry could admit to relying on Percival's influence to obtain a portkey that same week. He was bonded to the ever so handsome head of the DMLE; it would be wrong not to indulge in the perks. And there were a lot of perks, Harry thought as he caught sight of Percival stepping into the transportation office. Behind him, the clerk let out a concerned sound, snatching away the piece of string that would transport Harry and three other people to the British ministry of magic as though it had suddenly been transfigured into contraband.

On Percival's heels was Tina, and Harry heard an, "I understand the regulations, but sir," before she entered the room behind Percival. She looked around, as if only now realizing where her boss had intended to go, and caught sight of Harry. "Hello, Harry. Are you going somewhere?"

Percival didn't block her passage into the room, though he looked like he was contemplating it. "I did say I had a meeting scheduled. This is why I asked you to stay at the office."

"Sorry," she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Her sheepishness didn't last long; Harry could hear the interest in her tone as she said, "All of us aurors are curious about your bonded."

"Exactly," Percival said. To the anxious transport department employee, he said, "No criminals this time, Jim. May I have a moment?"

"Of course." Jim didn't seem to particularly care about the opinion of the other three would-be passengers, who weren't as enthused in about the delay in their transportation.

Harry straightened from his lean against the wall as Percival neared, taking a step forward. All his belongings were on him already. He'd taken a page out of Hermione's book and bought a shoulder bag with a bottomless extension charm, into which he'd stuffed all manner of things. His hodgepodge wardrobe (which Percival worryingly kept referring to as temporary), various governmental papers, his Gringotts identification letter since they didn't have his proper wand on file yet, assorted coins and sundries, a map of muggle and magical Britain. It would be back-breakingly heavy without the weightlessness charm; with it, Harry only felt a small pressure where the strap rested against him.

"I almost thought you weren't coming," Harry said when Percival finally reached him. He didn't mean it as a chide, being well aware of just how busy Percival was. Still, he'd spent the last few minutes glancing toward the door as the portkey takeoff time grew near.

"I wouldn't have missed this." Percival gave him an apologetic look. "Although events tried to conspire against me getting here in time. I found two of my aurors had realized something was off about me and instead of coming forward, they agreed to be paid off by Grindelwald in exchange for their silence and discreet aid."

"Be careful while I'm gone. You've increased his security?"

"And informed the president herself that he broke out in your future," Percival agreed. "Even if it does happen, I will be armed and ready for him. He won't catch me off guard again. There is an entire squad of aurors overseeing his transport to Germany; they're in more danger than I am, at this point." He took Harry's hand, rubbing over the knuckles. For good measure, he also ran his thumb against the scars on the top of his hand. I must not tell lies. "I'll be fine. I promise."

"You'd better be. I'll send in a complaint if you aren't. It'll be long-winded and in howler form. You'll be embarrassed to stay in your hospital room after getting it."

"I'll treasure it," Percival disagreed, his lips curling up with amusement. "Don't take any risks while exploring London's underbelly. If you land in the hospital, I'll be forced to visit."

"Don't tempt me." Harry abandoned his restraint, of which he had little anyway, and kissed him. He couldn't separate the kiss from the knowledge that this would be the last time in a while that he would be able to do this. Percival must've felt the same, because it was desperate on both sides, their grips a touch too tight and yet not nearly tight enough. Harry's hand brushed against the tie pin as he pressed closer. It was cool to the touch, smooth metal ridges uneven against his skin. He realized that he didn't want to leave; it wouldn't change anything, this realization, except for the fact that Harry already looked forward to returning home. When they pulled away, Harry didn't go far. Percival's grip wouldn't let him anyway. "I'll be a floo call away."

"We can't do this through a floo call," Percival said, proving his point with his lips. 

It was a very good point. Harry sighed. "I know." Looking past Percival's shoulder, he noticed Tina was standing a few meters away and studiously not looking at them in a way that meant she just had been. "We should've had a proper party to indulge everyone's curiosity. Your subordinates are criminally under-gossiped."

"That doesn't stop them." Percival's expression was aggrieved. "Maybe she'll forget everything she saw."

"Somehow I doubt it. Be prepared for that party when I get back?"

"I'll start mentally preparing myself now." 

Harry forced himself to give into returning to the portkey area. If he didn't go now, he'd end up following Percival home and having to get a portkey tomorrow, which would be an actual misuse of Percival's authority. He rejoined the travelers and raised the hand not touching the portkey in goodbye. He got one wave in before he was spinning away, the portkey pulling him off and away. Across land and sea, back to London. The place of his birth, the place of Voldemort's death, the place he'd had the strange luck of being sucked into the past. Not good or bad, just infinitely strange. 

As he opened his eyes, Harry expected to see a drab transportation room in the bowels of the ministry, but instead the brightness of the atrium greeted him. Harry blinked at the gleaming columns and floors. At the huge fountain at the center of the grand room, no statue in sight, though there were portraits of past ministers artfully arranged on the walls. He'd had some good times in this very room: Kingsley's swearing in as minister, spontaneous reconstruction crew parties when they were sick of moving rubble and just needed some food delivery and music, the Order of Merlin ceremonies where he'd seen his friends get their share of the credit for Voldemort's defeat (and had to suffer through his own). Those experiences tended to overshadow his worse moments in this room, namely the battle during his fifth year and the walk to his misuse of magic hearing, one far worse than the other, but for a moment Harry's vision was overlaid with memory upon memory. 

Numbly, he offered his papers to the ministry employee who greeted them. There was a comment about the Potter family, but he wasn't particularly listening. It wasn't only memory that chilled him; for the first time in weeks, Harry was all alone. Company had been forced upon him, that was true, and yet he'd been able to choose whose company he wished to suffer. Now, there was only himself standing under the high ceiling of the atrium, one person in a small group that would very soon disperse. 

"Are you alright?" asked one of his fellow portkey travelers, a young woman just past Hogwarts age. 

"I am," Harry quickly said, brushing the comment off. "Just feeling a little homesick."

For his own Britain. For Percival's presence, which had a habit of eclipsing Harry's uncertainty. Only a few minutes ago, he'd kissed Percival for dear life. But now that his papers were checked and he was free to leave through the floos at the other end of the hall, Harry forced himself to shake off his reminiscence. He had a job to do. His first stop was to Gringotts to make sure that his vault in the other branch appeared in their ledgers; he would be spending more money than he wanted to carry on him at the moment. No matter how certain he was of being able to notice a pickpocket or successfully fight his way out of an attack, Harry wasn't going to carry the entirety of the vault around on his body. 

He hadn't even realized how much he'd missed London until he heard familiar accents all around him. It was a comforting background buzz. Diagon Alley wasn't so different from the future. Wizarding fashion changed little as a whole, though people did seem to tend to wear hats more in this time. Harry, who had only worn a hat twice since his sorting ceremony, decided to eschew that particular fashion. Harry spent less than an hour re-familiarizing himself with wizarding London. Between the time difference and the early nights of autumn, it suited him better to find himself a bed to collapse into. He was feeling the full effects of portkey-lag. He'd never liked local portkeys in the first place; international ones were hell. 

Tomorrow, Harry thought to himself, closing his eyes after settling under the covers of a room at the Leaky Cauldron.


	5. Chapter 5

As in any grand old quest, the first day yielded little fruit.

Harry took to searching Knockturn Alley first, since he knew for a fact that Merope had been there at one point in time. No one seemed to know of her. Either that or they simply didn't care enough to search their memories. Knockturn Alley residents didn't have much of a community or atmosphere of helping their own. Borgin and Burkes was as cluttered and dimly lit as it would be in the future, stuffed to the brim with all sorts of old, dark, and dangerous objects. From behind the counter, Borgin got twitchy about the locket, telling him that he'd bought it from someone for a fair price and that was all there was to the story. He did say that it was sold to him a month ago, which Harry found hopeful. Ten galleons wasn't much, but it could stretch long enough for one person to get through a few weeks. If she hadn't been robbed, if something else hadn't happened, if the conversion rate to muggle money wasn't horrible... there were so many ways Merope's situation could've become worse. 

The streets of Knockturn Alley were long and dark, somehow narrower and more shaded than the streets of the main alley. Whether it was a deliberate effect or not, Harry couldn't say. It was certainly spooky. He was approached several times by people hoping to sell him what no doubt were illegal ingredients or objects. The shops Harry ducked into were little better. In an out of the way potions shop, the first thing Harry saw was a row of still-beating human-sized hearts.

Neither the shopkeepers nor the passerby gave any indication that they recognized her. Harry wished he had a photograph of the very least, but it was useless. As far as he knew, there were no existing photographs of Merope. 

As darkness fell and the alley grew much more unsafe than it was even in the daylight, Harry made his way back to Diagon Alley. His stomach was empty and his legs were tired. Hope flickered in his chest. It was only the first day. Instead of continuing into the warmth of the Leaky Cauldron, Harry ducked into the wandmaker's shop on his way. Inside was a comfortable organized chaos, one that Harry had visited every so often in the years following the second war as Ollivander adjusted back to the return of safety and peace. To Harry's surprise, Luna became Ollivander's apprentice in the art of wandmaking. If apprentice was the right word—she spent more time out of the shop than in it, often coming back to present the old wandmaker with feathers and claws of rare or previously thought imagined creatures. Peacetime hadn't caused the bond they'd forged in the Malfoys' dungeons to fade. It had only transformed it into a warm mentorship that healed some of their scars. 

Harry's gaze found the wandmaker instantly. Ollivander stood on a ladder that rested against a shelf of wands. He was adjusting a display table that held a huge pyramid of wand cases, one half again as tall as the wandmaker. Ollivander looked remarkably younger. He'd aged too much through two wars and three quarters of a century. 

"Hello there," Ollivander said, peering at Harry over the pyramid of wand cases. "I don't see a lot of new faces here, nor do I often get business outside of the summer months."

"I might not be a client," Harry admitted. His gaze was drawn to the spot where his former wand should sit, but the arrangement of boxes was all wrong. "I'm looking for a wand with the core of a phoenix feather."

"That's a rare core, that you're asking after," Ollivander said. He stepped off the ladder with a thud. The pyramid of wand cases shook at the vibration, but it stayed upright. "What makes you certain that a phoenix feather wand will suit you, Mr...?"

"Potter," Harry said. As Ollivander's pale silver eyes raked over his features, Harry hastily added, "Unrelated."

"Of course," Ollivander replied, walking forward until he was an arm's length away and leaning in a little, his long hair tumbling across his shoulders. It was dark, only beginning to go gray at the temples and in a few silvery strands within his locks. "I must be mistaken. Has no one ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to Henry Potter? To young Fleamont, too, but rather more to Henry. Your hair, your brows, the shape of your head... You could have been named for him." The only indication that Ollivander had heard Harry's words was him yielding enough to add, "Had you been related."

"Never met the man. My old wand had a phoenix feather core. Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches."

"Nice and supple, no doubt," Ollivander mused. "Who made it?"

"It was a family wand."

"A family wand," Ollivander said, looking as though Harry had told him he'd plucked a phoenix bare himself for the wand's creation. "I will never understand the practice. The wand chooses the wizard. Even when the wizard is gone, the choice remains. Come, sit. What wand are you using now?" When Harry handed it over, Ollivander looked down at it like its very existence pained him. "Almost completely  unsuitable. Another family wand?"

"Yes." 

Harry took a seat on the footstool and found himself being measured from finger to wrist, wrist to elbow, collarbone to collarbone, and all manner of other measurements. He had no idea what they indicated to Ollivander. It couldn't be the length of the wand, surely. Marcus Flint had an eight inch wand, while Luna's had two inches on Harry's. It was less disconcerting this time around, and also less magical. The tape measures flew around his body while Harry tried not to twitch away from it. Ollivander began trying out wands before the measuring even ended, holding a wand out toward Harry and then snatching it back before Harry could even take it. 

"Oh no, no," Ollivander murmured. "None of that." 

The next wand had a lighter wood. Ollivander allowed Harry to hold it this time. There was no spark of magic. It wasn't a phoenix feather wand, Harry gathered, let alone his wand, but he gamely waved it anyway. Over the next hour, the push and pull of wands lulled Harry into an almost meditative state. A wave, a few lackluster sparks, next. A breeze, a noise like a dying rhinoceros, next. Ollivander didn't seem to mind. He scoured the shop twice before tapping his fingers against his chin and giving Harry an appraising look. 

"Well," Ollivander said. "You _are_ a tricky customer. Perhaps you're right and a phoenix feather is what you require. I can't promise that if you bring me one, I will be able to create a suitable wand. Wand cores may seem identical at a glance, can even be from the same source, but they are night and day when one looks deeper. The wand wood, the binding, the length, everything will be chosen based on what the core is suited toward. I won't recreate your former wand."

"I wouldn't ask you to," Harry said, although that wasn't true. He could hope that the wand Ollivander created was the same wand that Harry had used for eleven years. "You haven't created any phoenix feather wands, then?"

"I haven't. It's only recently that a phoenix has even appeared in Britain." Ollivander threw the wand cases he was holding up into the air. They added to the pyramid of cases, steadying its base. Then, he leaned down to pen a quick note and handed it to Harry. "Attach this with your letter to Albus. The man no doubt gets dozens of requests for phoenix feathers, but we are colleagues in the art of supplying young witches and wizards with power and knowledge. I don't think he will deny me the chance, and through me, you. On my behalf, you will be polite and gracious to Fawkes. No matter how much you with for a phoenix feather, it will be his decision whether he gives you one. If he chooses not to, there are a few international options we can discuss later."

"I have the highest respect for phoenixes," Harry promised. Not only had he watched Fawkes claw out a basilisk's eyes, but the phoenix had swooped down and attacked Death Eaters during the battle of Hogwarts. Frankly, Harry would forever be polite to the bird, even when he wasn't feeling all that polite toward Dumbledore. "Thanks, Mr. Ollivander."

"Of course, Mr. Potter. Give my regards to Fawkes for me."

With that, Harry headed back to the Leaky Cauldron. He bought dinner at the pub, an entire tray of hot cider, fresh bread, and hearty meat stew, and carried it up to his room. After showering to scrub the gloom of Knockturn Alley from his skin—and maybe some lingering dark magic, who knew with that place—Harry went over his map, marking off the areas he'd visited. It was a minuscule part of London. Harry had never thought to complain about how big the city was until now. The hour grew late and his bowl emptied. He drew up a letter that he would send to Dumbledore the next morning. An innocent request for a meeting with Fawkes, one that bore no signs of Harry being something more. Or so Harry hoped. Dumbledore was a perceptive man.

Harry yawned a few times while he waited for the clock to strike midnight. New York was five hours behind. Percival usually worked late, but they'd agreed on Fridays at seven as their designated floo times. If for whatever reason Percival couldn't make it, it wasn't a big deal, but Harry looked forward to telling him about his day and hearing about Percival's auror-wrangling adventures. 

At a few minutes before midnight, Harry kneeled in front of the fireplace. He threw in enough floo powder for an hour's call and spoke into the flames, enunciating carefully by habit, "Harry Potter to the Graves Home." 

The flames glowed a brilliant green. If pressed, Harry wondered why people compared his eyes to the color of the Killing Curse when he'd thought the green flames suited him far better.

With an ocean between them, Harry wouldn't be able to use the floo to cross through. He could only stick his head in, instantly feeling overheated, and opening his eyes to view Percival's library. He didn't have to search far for Percival. Percival sat in Harry's armchair by the fire, Harry realized with pleasure. He sat properly, unlike Harry's slouching and contortions, and he'd pulled up a footrest to plant his feet on. A long, open scroll rested in his lap and stretched downward, only ending at Percival's crossed ankles. 

"Harry," Percival greeted, and Harry forgot all about the uncomfortable heat of the flames. "You're early."

"I don't know why. I don't have any good news," Harry said, smiling all the same. "Was your day any better?"

"Marginally. You know, Grindelwald kept better records than I gave him credit for—or paid someone off to do so, at any rate." Percival recounted his day, from spilling coffee on his collar in the morning to having to pull an auror investigation that must have been assigned only to covertly look for an obscurial, not that the aurors assigned to the mission had any idea. By now, Harry knew the key people in Percival's office well enough, if mostly by name, to ask after them. Tina seemed to have developed an interest in creatures' rights, one that Percival didn't understand but didn't bother discouraging. Maefly brought his crup puppy to the office during lunch hour. Larrick and Mathilda were coming up hot against the department's rules against coworker relationships. "It's the records I won't find that are the issue," Percival eventually said. "But there's no use worrying about it. Did you like the alterations I made to your map?"

"Yes. I can't believe you labeled it. I feel over-prepared," Harry said, too fondly. When he opened the map that morning, he discovered changes had been made since the last time he'd looked at it. There was now a tiny lion sleeping in the exact spot that Harry was located. The map had also been divided into quadrants, and the quadrants had sections of their own. Small multicolored dots were clustered at the edges of the map, able to be dragged to a spot on the map with the touch of a finger. "I'm working my way through quadrant one now. Knockturn Alley was, well, nothing unexpected." He ran through the more interesting parts of the day. Percival was suitably outraged at the questionably legal—or outright illegal—goods Harry mentioned and offered encouragement at Harry's failure to locate Merope. By the time Harry got to talking about Ollivander's, his eyelids were drooping, but he continued to speak. "I wish he hadn't connected me to the Potters so easily."

"You could've lied." Percival said it with no judgment in either direction; it was only an offer of another path.

"I could've," Harry agreed. "But... fuck it, I'm not giving up my name. It's not like anything's going to come of it. I bet there are loads of people with the Potter surname in the world."

"Quite a few less who bear a resemblance to Henry Potter." As Percival shifted in his seat, the scroll finally fell off of his lap, as it had been threatening to do for nearly an hour. Percival didn't even look down, his gaze on Harry's blazing form. "I've met him, you know."

Harry perked up at the news, leaning forward. Sometime during their conversation, he'd rested his elbows on his knees and his face on his hands. "You never mentioned it."

"It was twelve years or so ago. I'd forgotten until now; I bet—or perhaps it's better to say I hope—that he doesn't remember me well, either. I was visiting my brother and his wife in London when we were invited to a charity event at the ministry. I spilled a flute of champagne on him."

"Did you really?" Harry asked, instantly amused. 

"I did. At the time, I only recognized that he was a member of the Wizengamot by the trim of his robes, not knowing enough about British politics to be able to identify him on sight. He wasn't angry, but had you seen his face..." 

As Percival continued on, Harry reached for the box of floo and dumped some more powder into the fire, reluctant to leave even with sleep and exhaustion dogging at his heels. The bed at the Leaky Cauldron was cold and empty, while the fireplace had warmth and company. 

 

*

 

Harry curled his coat more tightly around himself as he walked through the chilly streets of London. It had snowed last night, autumn sliding into winter with no regard for Harry's time schedule. It was only November, but it felt colder than it should. He preferred the heat of summer to the cold of winter. Not even the Dursleys with their constant demands of yardwork had been able to stomp out Harry's enjoyment of the summer sun. Winter in turn felt like it was chilling the flesh from his bones. Harry breathed onto his gloves for a little heat. He'd use a warming charm, but he wasn't alone in this side alley. He'd already spoken with its other occupants—a man and woman in their forties who didn't know anyone named Merope. Harry's heart ached at day after day of talking to so many people he couldn't help. 

It wasn't fair. He knew he didn't live in a fair world, but going out into London again and again, talking with people who were cold and hungry, it only hammered in the point. Harry began bringing food each day to hand out to the people he spoke with. It didn't help as much as he wished, not with the misery all around him. The sky was gray and darkening above him. He walked through a few more alleys while he still had some daylight left. He greeted a few people he recognized by now. There was a shelter in the area where some would leave for soon, and Harry would return to the Leaky Cauldron It wasn't a Friday, so he would go over his map and take a look at the newspaper he hadn't gotten the chance to read this morning. Tomorrow, he would start again all over, continuing on until he finally found Merope. 

Upon exiting the alley, Harry stopped to rest at a small park. He sat on a bench that faced a large statue of a man riding a horse. Harry was too far away to read the inscription on the statue. The man seemed rather intimidating with his rifle and blank, unfocused gaze, but the horse looked nice. Harry's butt felt like it was going to meld with the metal bench. He made the decision to visit a bakery on his way back to the Leaky. A hot coffee and sticky pastry sounded heavenly to him at the moment. 

When someone sat down on the other side of the bench, Harry glanced over. His gaze didn't linger long. A woman in a long, shabby coat, with a garishly orange hat that was misshapen like one of Hermione's first attempts at knitting or a transfiguration gone long. It covered much of her face and ears, draping down past her eyebrows. It took a moment of the lines of her face to truly register with him. As did the fact that her cheekbones were stark, her shoulders were drawn, and her weather-blistered hands rested against the curve her stomach made in the coat. 

"Morty said you were looking for me," said the woman who could only be Merope Gaunt. Harry turned to face her properly, but didn't get any closer. She seemed tense, like any action on Harry's part might send her fleeing into the streets. "Why?" A reluctant shade of hope cast light to her face. "Did Tom send you?"

"No," Harry admitted. 

The flicker of hope faded as quickly as it had come. Her cheeks were pale, her nose splotchy with redness. "Marvolo, then? Morfin? Have they been released?"

"No," Harry said again. "As far as I know, they are still in Azkaban."

Merope didn't say anything for a long moment. Her dark eyes lingered on Harry's features, his cloak which had been transfigured into something more fitting with muggle fashion. "You're a wizard, then. I don't understand. What do you want with me? I don't have any money. Did Borgin send you? I swear I don't have any more of Slytherin's things. The locket I sold him was all I had."

Harry looked down at his gloved hands. Somehow, he'd never actually thought he'd get to this moment. He hadn't considered what he would say. He wasn't a relative of Merope's, nor was he a friend. For the longest time, he'd hated the entire Gaunt family on principle, so filled with anger at Voldemort that he hadn't cared about the wretched circumstances surrounding his birth. Harry hadn't wanted to reveal to any more people the circumstances surrounding his existence in 1926, but he doubted Merope would agree to leave with him otherwise. Or maybe she would, fearful but desperate. 

Harry met her eyes and spoke. "I was born in the year 1980 and I lived my life day by day until the 31st of October, 2002. I've always had bad luck on Halloween. Nearly every year there's something. Or if there isn't, it just means I'll only find out about it later, which might just be worse. I stumbled upon a dark ritual in the middle of the woods. I was at Hogwarts at the time. Minerva—the headmistress—asked a few friends and me to help set up some Halloween scavenger hunts for the students. She was still down two professors and needed some help. Hagrid used to do most of the decorations, and Filch when he could be convinced, but Hagrid was on his honeymoon and Filch had decided to retire. I think George's kid's birth announcement was the final nail in the coffin. So here we were, traipsing around the school grounds. The forest was going to be a forbidden area during the scavenger hunt, but I was setting something up just outside it. I thought I heard something. Someone yelling. It was far away, but the voice was strong. He was scared, whoever it was. I thought it was an idiot student who'd bitten off more than he could handle and gotten caught in an acromantula web."

"But it wasn't."

"No. He stopped yelling eventually, but I continued to walk. Eventually, I came across a clearing. It was familiar. I'd been there before, but at that moment I couldn't do anything but gape. There was a ritual circle drawn up at the center of the clearing. They'd already carved his heart out from his ribcage by the time I arrived. It was chaos. There were five of them, dressed in white robes, long hoods, bloody hands. They chased me. Somehow I ended up inside the ritual circle. I don't know how or why it went off." And that was the story Harry told Merope, told the Americans. It was a small omission, the resurrection stone at the center of the circle, but Harry would take the knowledge of those blasted hollows to his grave. Nothing good had ever come of the ring or the stone. "The next thing I remember, some American aurors were accusing me of breaking the Statute of Secrecy and it was 1926. I know it sounds unbelievable, but it's true."

Merope was looking at him like he'd grown a second head. She wasn't obviously shivering anymore; his tale must have taken her mind off the cold completely. "And instead of doing anything else with your life, you found me."

"Well, I also got hitched, but that's something else." Harry glanced down at Merope's belly. It was hidden by her coat, but inside, Tom Riddle was slowly growing, becoming a person instead of a fetus. "I knew your son in the future. I couldn't stand the thought of living a normal life when I knew his mum wasn't safe." Swallowing, Harry tried to see through Merope's shuttered expression. "It's the truth. I don't know how I can convince you that I only want to help. I'll swear an unbreakable vow to that effect if you want me to."

"We don't have enough people for a proper vow," Merope said. Her voice only wavered for a moment before she seemed to come to a decision. She stood up. Harry followed her, finding she was tall, only a centimeter or so shorter than himself. "I'm cold."

"Me, too. Come on. Have you ever been to the Leaky Cauldron?" Harry took off his glove and held out his hand to side-along her. Evening had fallen as they talked. There was no one in the park to see them vanish, if Merope would only agree. 

Merope shook her head. "I've only walked through it to get to Diagon Alley. It's a nice place." She looked down at Harry's hand for long enough that Harry feared she was having second thoughts. If she ran, vanished into streets she knew better than he did, he would be back to days of searching for her. Merope was a grown woman; she could choose to spurn his help if she wanted to. He just hoped it wouldn't come to that. "You said you were married?"

"I am," Harry said, not quibbling about the differences between bonding and marriage. They felt like one and the same. "His name is Percival. He's an American auror, works in New York City. He's busy with work, so he didn't come with me to London, but he cares about you too, Merope. He sent me all the way across the ocean after I told him why I wanted to go." Harry's hand was getting cold, but he didn't lower it. "You could meet him over the floo if you wanted. He's very pretty to look at."

"Okay," Merope murmured. "Okay."

Her hand was so cold that Harry had to force himself not to shudder as their fingers met. He gripped her hand firmly. "You won't regret this. I promise."

"You make too many promises," Merope said, but she didn't tear her hand away. Her lips twisted into something like a smile, unused to it as she was. 

Harry apparated them both to a dark corner of the Leaky Cauldron. He continued holding Merope's hand as he guided her to the bar; she needed all the heat she could get, even if his own hand wasn't as warm as it had been before he'd waited for her to take it. 

From behind the bar, Tom looked up and raised an eyebrow at the two of them. "You found your friend, then?"

"I did," Harry said. When he'd arrived, he'd told Tom that he was searching for a friend of his, though he hadn't given any more detail than that. It was the easiest explanation Harry had for why he was here. Just a man searching for someone he'd known, an easy fellow to rent a room to for a week or two. "My friend Merope. Can I get a room for her?"

"Sure can." 

Tom even gave her the empty room across the hall from Harry's. They were on the fourth floor, though from the outside, the pub only seemed to have two. Harry had never explored all the levels of the Leaky Cauldron. He was content to imagine that it simply went up endlessly, providing rooms to runaway third years and twenty-somethings on a mission alike. Harry gave both sets of keys to Merope. He only asked her to wait long enough for him to grab some clean clothes from his room. They wouldn't fit her well, but they would do until he could take Merope to Madam Malkin's. (Harry had a feeling Percival would be a snob about Malkin's cloth quality, but it was the place to go on Diagon Alley.) While Merope vanished into her room, Harry ordered two plates of dinner to his room and started a fire. He itched to throw some floo powder in the fireplace. It wouldn't do him any good. At this hour, Percival would still be at work. Evening hadn't even properly fallen in New York yet. 

An hour passed before Merope joined him. The trays would keep their food hot until they took their plates off. In the meantime, Harry snacked on an apple and said a relieved goodbye to his map of Britain. Maybe it was premature—Merope could still leave if she wanted to—but Harry wasn't sorry to throw the wrinkled and frayed map to the very bottom of his trunk. Hopefully, it would stay there until Merope was safely housed and healthy, after which Harry would throw it in the nearest trash bin. 

A soft knock resounded against the door. 

"It's open," Harry called. 

Absent of her winter covering, Merope seemed both less and more. She was thinner than Harry had realized, but her pregnant belly showed clearly against Harry's robes. Americans preferred a tighter fit—or maybe that was just Percival—and Harry's clothes didn't strain against her waist, but clearly seemed to threaten to. She and Harry took their dinner by the fire, abandoning the small table in favor of the soft fur rug in front of the fireplace. Harry sat with a little distance, while Merope couldn't possibly get closer to the flames if she tried. Harry kept watching to make sure her long brown hair didn't get caught on fire. It had been wet and limp against her back when she'd entered the room, but in short time it had begun to dry from the fire's heat. 

"Will you tell me about him?" Merope eventually asked. 

Harry found he couldn't truly deny her the request. He was aware of the fact that Merope only barely trusted him. A thought also tugged at him, the idea that perhaps Merope might not survive the winter after all. She would have the best healer St. Mungo's had to offer if Harry had any say about it, but even with the best help, women still sometimes died in childbirth. More now, without the advancements of the coming decades. Muggles had made so many advancements by Harry's future; he had no idea if wizards had done the same, if the 1920s were an unenlightened period in the history of wizarding medicine. 

"You named him Tom Marvolo Riddle," Harry began, his voice falling into a rhythm from a faraway memory. "Tom after his father, Marvolo after yours." Harry told her the little he knew of Tom's pre-Hogwarts years at the orphanage. A dull, miserly sort of place where Tom had not been particularly happy or challenged. He continued on to Dumbledore's arrival with Tom's Hogwarts letter. Merope was enraged on Tom's behalf at the lighting of his wardrobe and the way Dumbledore seemed to have judged her son so quickly. Tom would go on to buy his school supplies alone, turning down Dumbledore's offer of assistance. 

"Too much pride," Merope said, but it didn't seem to be a criticism. "Dad and Morfin would love him. They can't ever meet, not with my baby being a halfblood, but if he weren't... they would love him, in their own horrible way."

"He got into Slytherin," Harry added. 

"Even better. He was strong?"

"The strongest of his generation," Harry replied, swallowing his doubts and simply telling her the truth. Tom Riddle was an exemplary student, Head Boy, well-liked by nearly everyone in school. He'd also opened the Chamber of Secrets and caused the death of one of his classmates, sentencing her to an afterlife as a ghost in the girls' bathrooms. He would go on to become a Dark Lord who waged two wars on wizarding Britain. The first had lasted over a decade, causing people to become too frightened to even say his chosen pseudonym. The second lasted only a few years but irreparably damaged the British wizarding community. Even five years later, Britain had still been healing from the chaos and death his reign had brought. 

When Harry finished speaking, Merope said nothing before abruptly laughing, the sound tinged with hysteria. She raised her hands to her face, covering it as she shook with mixed emotion. Her eyes were bright when she looked up and said, "My baby. Oh, my Tom." She said nothing for a few minutes. Harry was quiet too, thinking of the boy in Dumbledore's memory and the man whose body fell to the stone courtyard outside of Hogwarts. Merope picked at her food before finally looking up. "I don't love him any less for it. I should, I know, but I don't."

Harry shrugged. "I don't know much about loving your own kid, but... it's supposed to be unconditional. And just because all of this happened in my future doesn't mean it will happen in yours. Maybe he'll grow up and the worst thing in his record will be that he's a bit of a dick." Harry wasn't all that convinced of it, but he could acknowledge the idea that with some guidance and love, Tom might not become a Dark Lord again. "Maybe."

"Maybe," Merope huffed. "I still don't understand it. You hated him. You must have. But here you are."

Harry nodded. Here he was. It wasn't so simple, though. It was guilt, honor, pity, hope, a plain old mess of emotions. It was also, "I am so alone in this time. Percival is great. I don't mean— He's the best thing that could've happened to me. But I miss my old life so bad it hurts sometimes, and whatever else, your son is the strongest link I will ever have to my old life. By fate, prophecy, choice, all sorts of bullshit, he impacted my life more than anyone else in the world. I think maybe, I can change his to the same extent, though not by the same means."

"I think I understand," Merope said. "It's a very Gryffindor sort of way to get revenge."

Harry barked a laugh, surprised and embarrassed at once. Merope wasn't wrong at all. What could be the biggest fuck you to Voldemort than erasing his existence from this world? Through kindness instead of pain, through reaching out a hand to a young woman to whom the world had been so cruel to, and she cruel and thoughtless in return. "So you believe me?"

"I do. I can't promise you anything. My whole family, we're not good people. I don't know if I can raise him to not make all of our mistakes."

"Start by living," Harry said, offering her a crooked smile. "And we'll work on it from there."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](https://crownwithoutstones.tumblr.com/).


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